


Mischief and Magic

by Templar_Headache



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drabbles, Friendmance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More Tags to be added as I go, Non-default Hawke, Oh also, Sexual Content, and more characters, and probably maybe might get more pornographic, i'll mark those chapters though if someone wants to skip them, potentially inappropriate ways of handling mental illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:19:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7897747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Templar_Headache/pseuds/Templar_Headache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olevyr Hawke, young Fereldan refugee and Champion of Kirkwall.</p><p>Anders, apostate mage, Grey Warden, and harborer of Justice.</p><p>A collection of related short works about their relationship, adventures, mishaps, all that good stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wardrobe Dysfunction

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been a long while since I've posted fanfiction anywhere and I'm a bit nervous to do so. I've been inspired by Dragon Age though, and I think it's a shame to let what I've written sit around on my phone collecting virtual dust.
> 
> I may try illustrating chapters in the future, but for now, here's my Hawke, Olevyr:
> 
> http://67.media.tumblr.com/963681ee804a5c90b94b50f9aac03cf6/tumblr_oa5w8qu2z31u5585ao1_1280.png
> 
> This chapter is inspired by my own gameplay experience. It was my first time playing any of the Dragon Age games at the time and... yeah.

_Kirkwall, Year 2._

"Hawke," Varric mumbled, a confused look on his face. "Am I going batty, or have you been wearing that same set of armor for the last two months?"

Olevyr looked a bit sheepish. "I er, I don't think these are that old."

"You're not a very good liar," Merrill chimed in, poking the frayed cloth poking out from Hawke's chest plate. "What good does an old suit of armor do you? It's awfully filthy, you should wash it at least."

"I do wash it! It just so happens we tend to get dirty more often than we get clean," Hawke retorted.

"Do you tell all the ladies that? I'm sure they would be all over you." Anders piped up. "You shouldn't even be wearing heavy armor like that, Hawke. If you've been training your muscles for speed and precision, wearing a big hunk of metal is only going to increase your chance of spraining something."

Olevyr rolled his eyes. "Next time you all decide to roast me for my fashion sense, could you at least tell me beforehand? I hate being the only one at a cookout who didn't bring anything."

"Aw, Hawke, you're the main course!" Varric laughed, but then paused for a moment with a thoughtful sound, a visible flash of realization overcoming him which made Hawke fidget at the sight of it. "You've... never struck me as a fashion sort of guy, Hawke. You aren't... having trouble with your armor, are you?"

"I-I, no, I'm..." Hawke stuttered, but he couldn't bring himself to lie about it. "...Fine, you win. I can't really tell which of my things would fit me best. Or worse, I can't really judge what all of you should be wearing. Last time I tried, I gave Anders a necklace which lowered his proficiency at healing magic and improved blood magic. I'm sure he fancied that."

Anders chuckled. "It was... An interesting challenge, to say the least."

Varric gave a friendly smile and a firm pat on Hawke's back. "Don't feel too bad. His look of surprise when I yanked the thing off of him after a night of him panicking about losing his edge was worth it. Poor Blondie, he never saw the well-intentioned sabotage coming."

Hawke fidgeted with a loose thread. "That's just it, though. You all just -trust- me to know what's best for you, even though I clearly have no idea what I'm doing. I wouldn't have thought twice about wearing this apparently useless garbage, had none of you brought it up."

"Don't worry about me!" Merrill piped in. "I've already been helping myself to your things. Well, the things I knew you wouldn't use of course. I can give them back if you like."

Hawke nodded. "No, I'm glad to hear it, Merrill. I wouldn't want you getting hurt because I'm a blighted idiot at this sort of thing."

"Varric was able to recognize that amulet you gave me. Maybe he can help you out? I can help you identify what sort of armor you'd need, as well," Anders posited with a shrug. "Merrill can keep stealing from you, I'll be your fashion consultant, and Varric can ensure you have only the best and most effective bling."

"And I can let you know if you look ridiculous," Merrill added.

Olevyr chuckled, hanging his head a bit to hide a slight blush. "Where would I be without you all?"


	2. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another short-ish one. These jump around in terms of time frame a lot, I'll include the times they take place at the beginning if it's not explicitly stated in the text.

_One year after Kirkwall._

 

"Is it true a spirit helps you, Ser Anders?" A young mage asked, staring intently at the curious man who was currently in the middle of eating a bowl of extremely cheesy soup, surrounded by a small congregation of young mages who were taking residence in an old, abandoned merchant's cellar.

Anders nodded, setting down his spoon. "That's right. How did you know that? I honestly don't know what's common knowledge about me these days."

"It's just, there are rumors. Weird stuff happening around you, you know? Like that bottle of wine that Marvenna misplaced. She said it turned up right after telling you about it."

"I think that's just a coincidence," Anders said with a smile. "I don't think Justice can make bottles of wine appear out of thin air. Would be a great party trick though."

"But he can kill a guy that's fifty feet away out of nowhere! I saw him do it!" A young boy exclaimed.

"No," Anders smiled, shifting in his seat a bit. "Whatever that was, it wasn't him. You'll know when he's around. If I turn bright blue and start yelling, that's him."

Another boy slammed something on the nearby counter in annoyance. "Thomas! You didn't leave me any soup! You promised!"

"Hey, don't look at me. There was still soup in there when I was done," the boy - probably Thomas - replied.

"Come on, who took the last of-" the boy stopped as he turned back around to the counter, noticing a mostly-untouched bowl of soup sitting on the edge. "Whose bowl is this?"

"Yours now! Sorry," someone said, and the young mages all jumped at the unfamiliar voice, turning their gaze to Anders, who shrugged and fought back a smirk.

"It was you! It was!" The girl bounced in her seat.

The boy at the counter looked sheepish. "You c-can have it, sorry to, um, take your-"

"It honestly, really wasn't me," Anders said, motioning to the bowl of soup. "If you want that, eat it. I had my portion already."

"I only took one bite," the mystery voice called out. 

The mage boy looked terrified. "It... It's not a demon, is it? You're all hearing it, too?"

"It's not a demon," Anders assured him, while faint laughter emanated from a distant corner. "Watch this." 

He picked up a wadded up piece of paper and flung it at an empty part of the room, where something invisible swatted it away. "Hey! I'm no good a bodyguard if you let everyone know where I am."

"Yes, thank you, I'm terrified these hungry children will try to kill me. What kind of bodyguard steals some poor kid's soup? You can have mine."

The kids all shuffled into a worried, tightly-knit crowd together. "Is it Justice?" One of them asked quietly, the others craning their neck to try to see what, exactly, was hiding from them.

"It's an assassin," Anders said, as if that was supposed to calm anyone down. "He's on my side. Don't worry about it."

One of the kids carefully wandered over to the 'empty' corner of the room, trying to reach out for whatever was there.

"Kid, please, I'm already failing my job. At least-"

The voice had no time to finish, because the boy shoved, and a startled figure seemed to melt out of the shadows - as if he'd always been standing there, but no one had noticed. 

The child stumbled backwards and fell onto his ass, eyes wide. "Y-you're the Champion of Kirkwall!"

"Uh," the man said, looking around the room. "Right now I'm just a bodyguard. You didn't see me, all right?"

"The Champion of Kirkwall ate my soup!" The other boy exclaimed, and suddenly a pile of mage children were crowding around the man and tugging at his pointy red armor. 

"He stole my wine, too," an older girl called out from the corner.

"Why is the Champion of Kirkwall with you, Ser Anders?" A girl asked. "He ain't a mage."

"Well, kids," Hawke said, putting on his best mock 'teacher' voice. "When two adults love each other very much, sometimes they start a rebellion and then hide in the woods eating nothing but fish for half a year. It's very romantic."

"Eww," one of the younger girls exclaimed, sticking out her tongue. "Ser Anders is like fifty! Do you kiss him?"

"Hey, he's in his thirties! And of course I do."

The girl made a face. "Adults are gross. I'm not gonna kiss anyone unless they're my age."

"I'm not THAT young," Hawke said, shrugging. "I'll be turning thirty soon."

"You're like ten years more young than him! Ewwwww!"

"I never imagined our harshest critics would be apostate children," Anders sighed. "The world really has changed.."


	3. Rogues and Card Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A group of rogues discuss cards. All Fenris does is choke on alcohol but I love him anyways.

_Kirkwall, one month after the Deep Roads._

 

The Hanged Man was warm and homely, comfortable red evening light pouring in through the windows, the fire crackling softly, Kirkwall's crew of misfits taking the opportunity of a slow night to occupy multiple tables instead of just one for once.

"Come on, Hawke! You have the worst poker face I've ever seen," Varric teased, doling out another hand of cards to the flustered rogue. The usually cheerful man was unusually stiff-shouldered and concentrated as he took his cards. 

"Sorry," he muttered, rubbing his forehead and frowning at the cards he'd been dealt.

Isabela leaned in with a frown. "Got a bad hand, love? It's written all over your face."

"I'll never be good at this blighted game," Hawke grumbled with a self-defeating half-smirk, leaning back in his chair and surveying the room.

"It isn't about being good, sweetness," Isabela said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You just have to... have finesse. It's like picking a lock."

"I fail to see the comparison," Hawke said, looking to Varric for confirmation. "Picking a lock requires steady fingers and quick hands, neither of which are card-playing skills, unless I've been playing horribly wrong this whole time."

Varric shook his head. "She's telling you to cheat, Hawke. I must admit, having quick hands is a good skill when you have a card up your sleeve. The more quickly you move, the less likely anyone is to see you do it."

"No."

"...No?" Varric's eyebrow lifted in surprise.

Hawke frowned, setting his cards down and shifting his chair back a bit. "I can't do that."

Isabela looked like she was on the verge of bursting out laughing. "You mean to tell me you NEVER cheat at cards? What kind of a rogue are you? Cheating's practically a requirement!"

"I'm shit at lying," Hawke said with a huff, turning to instead watch Merrill and Anders cheerily bothering a stoic-but-clearly-drunk Aveline at another table out of the corner of his eye.

"Shit at it, or unwilling? There's a difference," Isabela cooed. "I think you'd make a fine liar if you gave yourself the chance."

"I just hate how it feels. Nasty feeling, knowing you're tricking someone. Picking locks is easy, knowing where to stab a guy is easy, feels nice when you're right and it's done quick, but lying? Agh, it always feels like I'm tasting something bitter." He lifted his hand with a smirk as Isabela opened her mouth. "And no, not like THAT, Bela. I don't mind that."

"Of course~" Isabela winked, shimmying her shoulders a bit.

Hawke winked back. "I guess I usually try not to think about morals too much, but I hate to think about how anyone feels when they're tricked. Worst feeling in the world, though, accidentally confusing a health poultice with a container of magebane in a hurry when trying to assist Merrill is a very, very close second." Fenris, who had been extremely quiet the whole time, snorted in the middle of taking a drink and had to excuse himself so as not to choke on his laughter.

"Don't listen to her, Hawke," Varric said, waving a hand in Hawke's direction. "I've seen you stab enough people to know you're a good rogue. I do enough lying for the both of us."

"But your lies are more like..." Hawke leaned over the table, rubbing his chin. "Strange, impossible stories that you convince people are real. I don't know if they're lies so much as embellishments, really."

"Same difference," Varric said with a grin. "Speaking of strange stories and your miraculous lack of ability to lie, what's the deal?" He nodded towards the table of two mages and a disgruntled guardswoman.

"What deal? There's no deal," Hawke averted his gaze, suddenly extremely interested in the mug of ale he'd left almost entirely untouched before then.

"There's definitely a deal," Isabela said with an agreeing nod. "Varric and I have money on it."

"With who!?" Hawke set his drink down a bit more forcefully than he intended, spilling a bit onto his shoes. "Don't put money on my love life!"

"So there IS something romantic going on, I knew it!" Varric clapped gleefully and produced a pen and paper from seemingly nowhere.

"I wish," Hawke pouted quietly. "l remain as single as always." He paused for a moment, gathering his cards again, examining the bad hand he'd been dealt, cracking a bit of a smile. "But I -am- a terrible liar. I'm sure you'll hear from me first thing if something has changed that, whether I like it or not."


	4. Uncomfortable Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer one this time. And as usual, timeframe jumps around. This one is a bit more angsty, wooo
> 
> Olevyr worries about Anders's silence.

Hawke rolled around in his bed anxiously. Anders had been sitting at the desk all night, and Hawke hated to see him so agitated.

He wondered if Anders was dying. Ever since he'd helped him collect the ingredients to help free Justice, Anders had been more and more brooding, more and more reserved. Hawke wasn't an expert on grief, but he knew a man preparing for his own death when he saw one. He knew that the potion had a chance to be volatile - Anders himself had made no promises, simply had stated he'd hope. Hawke knew - he looked into Anders's eyes and he knew Anders was dying.

He wondered if he'd tell him before it happened. Would he give him a year to prepare? A month? Weeks? Or would it be a matter of days, leaving Hawke scrambling to come to terms with his love's departure? Not that it would matter - he was already struggling to accept it. He was already worrying himself awake, tossing and turning as he fought back tears thinking of all the things they'd never get to do.

They'd never run off into the countryside on some grand adventure, would never learn to ride horses together, never would stalk deer and druffalo in the rain and share a meal they'd caught together, prepared together - a skilled flick of the wrist to cleanly cut the meat, a concentrated wave of magical flame to bring up a fire, cooking their dinner together in the wilderness, staring up at the stars. They'd never marry in a gaudy shack outside of Val Royeaux and spend a honeymoon spelunking ancient Dwarven caves. They'd never hike their way to Antiva and Tevinter and down to the wilds of Ferelden together - of course visiting the Circles and helping the mages run free. He would never dream of depriving Anders of that goal. The goal that, now, he wouldn't see before he passed on. That now, he would never be able to reach.

He didn't realize there were tears rolling down his face until Anders made a startled sound and quickly left the desk to join him in bed. Anders asked him what was wrong, and he couldn't muster the strength to beg for him to admit that he was dying. Instead, he curled his arms tightly around the man's thin chest, burying his head beneath Anders's neck and sobbing into his feathers. For a single moment, Anders seemed to lose his grumpy air, cooing gently and running a hand through Hawke's messy hair, the other hand rubbing circles in the man's back.

"Please stay with me," Hawke cried, and Anders tensed up under him. Hawke was pretty sure the mage didn't realize he meant forever, forever stay here, don't let death come - don't leave.

"I'm here," Anders whispered in the softest voice Hawke had heard in months. He pressed gentle kisses on Hawke's head, though soon Hawke had hoisted himself up farther so as to meet his lips. He kissed Anders, tongue against his, teeth knocking together slightly, biting gently on the other's lower lip - wanting nothing more than to devour whatever sickness and fear lay within his other half, rip it out of him and nurture the places left torn behind, let them grow into something healthy again.

As soon as they'd begun, they pulled away again - Anders looked at him with a gaze that was both pointed directly into him and yet staring a thousand miles into the distance. 

"Please," Anders said, looking bedraggled. "Please don't cry. It's all right."

It wasn't all right, Hawke thought, but nodded anyways. He would have to accept it - accept that this could easily be his last kiss with Anders. His stomach churned with fear, but he took a deep breath. For him - for his love - he would be strong. He would be happy for him, with him, would help him enjoy the last of his days. Even if it meant Hawke had to cry alone in bed, praying to whatever power could hear him - let him live.

\--

Anders lived.

The dagger had been cast aside. Hawke had nearly collapsed as he curled his arms around the man, holding on tight to his feathery coat and taking a deep breath as he held on to him. Anders barely moved, barely felt alive, his will to live drained away by the violet flames in the sky - but Hawke refused. Anders would not die. Not by his hands - not when he had suffered sleepless night after sleepless night thinking of how long it would be until Anders's body gave in. But Anders wasn't dying anymore - he could live. If Hawke permitted it, Anders would live.

He was hurt. He felt the burning, scalding, pure childlike sensation of gullibility. He'd been tricked, and unlike he serene, ugly, somber feeling of grief and loss, it was a crude, painful feeling that made him feel like a little kid - helpless, ashamed, scared. He wanted nothing more than to sit on the bloodied ground and bawl, wanted to vomit, to bite his lip and cry out in confusion and pain and anger and...

Love.

Worry.

He couldn't look Anders in the eye without feeling nauseous, but he fought back the bile in his throat and stared him straight on, seeing the dull glint in the man's golden eyes. It was a greyness more emotional than anything which shrouded the man's face, and Hawke could feel him beg for death.

He could barely feel it under the burning shame of having been deceived, but something inside of him snapped awake. Anger. Rage. Responsibility - he must win. No matter what, he MUST win. Until his blade was stained with Meredith's blood, Anders could never be free. None of them could ever be free.

It didn't matter who had to die - he would make his friends free. There were no grandiose ideologies in his mind, no ideals, no political beliefs - only the fear on all of their faces as the city burned around them.

He would gladly kill to see their smiles one last time.

\--

It was raining outside, thundering heavily and pitch black from storm clouds, despite being midday. The two of them were in a cave which had been some sort of old fishing camp, if the various abandoned boxes of lure and tackle and fishing implements were to be believed, and it was cold. The small fire seemed to be doing absolutely nothing for them - even under the blankets each had wrapped around them, sitting on opposite sides of the room, they were shivering from the cold.

It had been scarcely two months since Kirkwall, and the two of them couldn't bring themselves to look each other in the eye for more than a moment - or rather, Anders couldn't seem to look at him for very long, and Hawke could barely pry his gaze away. They had barely spoken, save for when they had to ask each other for directions or to stop for food or rest.

Anders was a strange man - humorous at times, twitchy and paranoid at others, angry and vitriolic, opinionated and passionate, and sickly, sweetly romantic. Hawke wondered what Anders had seen in him - a free spirit? A foolish, pretty young man with a quick wit? Surely he hadn't loved Hawke just due to knowledge of his sympathy towards the mages, though it probably didn't hurt anything.

Hawke stood from where he had been sitting and moved to Anders, who was staring wordlessly into the fire. 

"Is this seat taken?" Hawke mused, motioning to the area of the split log bench next to where Anders was seated.

"By you, if you want it," Anders responded in monotone. Hawke plopped down next to him, the weight of his body shifting the log slightly and startling the man next to him. 

"Sorry," Hawke whispered sheepishly. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine." Anders continued to stare at the fire, and Hawke sighed.

"You're going to go blind if you keep staring at the one light in the room." He'd intended it as a joke, but it wasn't very funny and he sounded more like a parent than anything. 

Anders was silent, so Hawke continued. "It's cold in here. We can lie down for a bit if you like. Share body heat, and all that." He sighed. "If you want to, of course."

It almost seemed as if Anders hadn't heard him, but slowly the man leaned back a bit and turned to face him, their eyes meeting for what felt like the first time in ages.

"I should be dead," Anders whispered.

"No," Hawke said flatly, making an indignant face. "You should be resting. You're cold and you must be sore from hiking all day. Come on," Hawke laced an arm around Anders's fluffy black coat and coaxed him to stand, leading him back towards a small regress in the cave where a few cots had been set up by long-gone fishermen. One of them was a bit wider than the others, and he gently pulled Anders with him onto it, holding tight once they had both laid down.

"Don't ever say you should be dead," Hawke grumbled, refusing to let go of him even though the position they were in meant one of his arms was currently being uncomfortably crushed by one of Anders's various bags he had clipped to his belt. He didn't care - he wanted to hold tight, wanted to keep the man close, and he'd gladly deal with a few bruises and pinches if it meant he could feel the warmth from the mage's chest against his own. "You should be warm, dry, safe."

"You can't have forgiven me already," Anders said hoarsely, staring off into the distance. "Ever since you ran off with me, you've been sad and lonely. You didn't want this. Didn't want me." He took a sharp breath. "You should have gotten rid of me when you had the chance."

"I won't lie and say I haven't been... more down than I usually am," Hawke said firmly, "but I would never forgive myself for killing you. It eats away at me to see you upset. I'm not lonely, Anders, I'm concerned."

Anders finally seemed to focus his eyes into him. "Could you ever forgive me, Hawke?"

Hawke hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. "I will," he said, holding tight. "I haven't yet, I don't think, but... I will."

"Is there anything I can do about that?" Anders wondered.

"You hurt me," Hawke said quietly, "but more than that; you hurt yourself. You've been sick and sad and irritable. You ask me, constantly - why didn't I kill you? It should be obvious, Anders. I love you. I hate to see you hurt. I'm trying my best to forgive you, I am, but I can't, not when I see how what you've done -hurts- you so much. If I seem miserable around you, it's because I'm worried sick."

Thunder rattled the ground, and Anders's face had twisted into a frown, brows upturned and eyes starting to water. "I'm not... I don't regret it. Well, I do, but what's done is done, and exactly what I had hoped to happen came true. Except for..." He paused for a moment. "Except that I'm still alive. That part was unintentional. I'm still trying to learn how to live with myself. It was supposed to be easy - the city burns, I pay for what I've done to you and everyone in Kirkwall with my life, Meredith dies, the mages of Kirkwall - and you - run free. I lived the last three years expecting it all to end that way. Now that I'm here, I can't shake the fact I should be dead."

"You made a hideous miscalculation then," Hawke said, a small, weary smile creeping its way onto his face. "If an infallible cornerstone of your plan was for me to kill you, it was doomed to failure from the very beginning."

Anders sighed. 

"I just thought it would make sense. When people tricked you, hurt you, you'd fight against them. You hated the templars because they bothered your sister and I, killed them not out of spite for what they were but because they came after us. Mages, too - it didn't matter who or what it was that came after you. When they hurt you, when they hurt the ones you loved, their fates were sealed. Your judgment came and went in one deadly strike and it was a marvel to witness - like a beast turned human, or a thunderbolt that came in a flash of light and left as soon as it arrived, leaving its victim the only trace of its fury. I just assumed you'd do the same with me. Once I knew I had... tricked you into helping me, I knew the lightning would come for me. The sky was grey for me, for a very long time."

Hawke squeezed tighter. "You're someone I love. I fight those who try to hurt people I love, not the other way around. I was -seconds- from stabbing Meredith on sight when the damn explosion distracted everyone. She wanted to hurt you. I wouldn't have that. But I got to stab her anyways, so no loss on my end, really."

Anders seemed calm. Somehow, hearing that had made his eyes glint slightly, and the edges of his mouth turned up a bit. It was nearly unnoticeable - but Hawke noticed. "Seven years now," Anders said, reaching to run a hand through Hawke's hair. "Seven years, and I still don't have you figured out."

Hawke smiled, the glow of the dying fire illuminating the way the small wrinkles near his eyes scrunched together as he did. "I'm pretty easy. I want to climb trees, I want to run through the desert, I want to eat good food and have good friends and someone whose hand I can hold when the night gets cold," he found Anders's palm and curled his around it. "I want to have an adventure. One where the people I love smile and dance without worrying if anyone is watching, one where there's danger and mystery, but in the end, we go home with a good story to tell, wherever we wander off to. One with a scrappy Fereldan rogue, his studious and stubborn sister, his handsome blond apostate lover, a friendly dwarf, a grumbly warrior, a kindly elf mage, a saucy pirate, and a poor, good natured guardswoman who has to make sure none of the previously mentioned adventurers get too drunk. Oh, and a dog perhaps. I'm lenient though - I'll let you bring a cat too, if you like."

"You oversimplify yourself." Anders muttered. "You're so much more than just.. An adventurer. You're a leader, you make decisions on a whim that change the world. I just wish I knew how your mind worked, is all."

"You and I both," Hawke said, rolling his eyes. "I think you'd find I'm much more childish and idealistic than you'd hope."

"I think you're more cautious and thoughtful than you know. It takes more than a shallow wanderlust to bring Kirkwall to its knees and escape with your friends all in one piece. Takes more than being childish and idealistic to show the mercy and softness and bravery that someone like you has." Anders weaved a leg between Hawke's and curled himself towards him, sighing in relief.

"Thank you for talking to me," Hawke said quietly, kissing Anders's neck gently.

"It felt nice," Anders agreed. "We should do it more."


	5. Thievery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Anders discuss birthdays and thievery.
> 
> I felt like this was a good follow up to the previous entry, so here we are. This one's far less angsty, it was prompted when I first played Inquisition, thinking about how sharp and bitter Hawke seemed at first.
> 
> I should mention - I think somewhere I read that Hawke is canonically 25 when he gets to Kirkwall. I wrote this, as well as played all of DA2, with my own perspective that he was quite young when he got to Kirkwall - so while it breaks a bit of canon semantics, Olevyr was 20 when he escaped Ferelden, and the twins were 19. If that cocks up the world's timeline then -shrugs- a wizard did it

"Oh Maker, I'm going to regret asking this, but.. How old are you, Hawke?"

The sprightly man smiled, leaning back against the wall of his new Hightown home, his soft, gentle eyes reflecting the evening light. "Why, are you afraid I'll be offended? Hardly. I'm twenty-three, just turned so recently."

Anders glowered to himself slightly, cheeks reddening just barely. "Andraste's tits, you must have been barely twenty when I met you." He then lifted an eyebrow. "We've never had a party for you, have we?"

Hawke shrugged. "Neither have we for anyone else in our circle of misfits. Why start now? Actually, no, scratch that - we should definitely start having parties, but I would hate to need a reason for them other than 'because I can', you know?"

Anders shuffled uncomfortably in front of the window, staring out at the street below. "I didn't think you were so... young, when I met you." He seemed to be ignoring the party comment.

"Everyone is young at first. That's, typically, how growing up works," Hawke chuckled. "Besides, you aren't that much older than me. What, are you concerned that our contentious band of outcasts will see you as a dirty old cradle-robber? If they do, they can kindly shove their opinion where the sun doesn't shine."

The mage made a strange expression, eyeing Hawke like a delicate artifact. "It's not them I'm worried about. I just..." He sighed, walking over to sit on Hawke's bed, watching a feather fly off of him and float daintily to the floor. "I hate to say you haven't done much, because what you've been through has been quite a trial for sure, but you're young. In comparison to what has happened to me, it feels as if you... Are a flower which has barely begun to bloom, a fledgling who has taken its first leap into the wind. I just don't know how you can choose to be with me."

Hawke scowled. "I'm not a baby. I might be young, but I think I understand pain and loss well enough to weigh my chances on a strange apostate. My sister... my sister has always had that same threat looming over her, and I've known her my whole life. Er, her whole life. We're only a year apart, so pretty much the same thing, but anyway - don't think I don't understand what sort of dangers come with being close to an apostate."

"Perhaps," Anders nodded, though he didn't seem convinced. "I've just made a lot more enemies than she has, admittedly." He crinkled his nose a bit in thought. "I make decisions that aren't the best decisions sometimes. I'm a stubborn fool like that, it seems. Can't help myself."

"What does this have to do with me being a little baby man? Are you implying I'm a bad decision? Because if that's the case, then I absolutely agree with you." He winked.

Anders chuckled. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

\---

"Hawke, do you remember what today is?" Anders mused.

"Hmm.. No. Is it supposed to be anything?" Hawke replied, his steely, sharp eyes glinting in the low light of their makeshift campfire. 

"It's your birthday," Anders murmured, more to himself than to Hawke. "You're thirty."

Hawke looked up, confused. "Really?"

"Yes," Anders muttered, poking at the fire with a long piece of wood, letting warm arcs of energy travel from his hands down the length of the stick until it crackled into a tiny burst of flame at the bottom, re-igniting some of the logs that had started to smoulder.

Hawke drew his face into a grimace, not bothering to mask his concern with a joke. "You seem upset about that."

Anders looked at him in a way that only could be described as ethereal and weary. Something from within himself was staring out through his own eyes at the man who stayed with him, and Anders wondered for a moment if it was Justice - or worse, if that sensation was some ancient, forgotten part of him trapped deep inside. "You wasted your youth on me, Hawke. Why? Why have you been so stubborn as to follow a deteriorating madman on an impossible quest that you don't even feel the same way about? You could have gone and..." He turned away, focusing on an ember at his foot, which he quickly stamped out with his boot. "You could have met some pretty young fool, could have bought yourself a nice mansion and lived off of fine wine while you raised generation after generation of Mabari with him, instead of sticking around here, digging around in muddy rivers for something to eat."

"Sounds horrible," Hawke scoffed. "The Mabari part not so much, but you wouldn't really peg me as the type to sit on my ass in some mansion drinking all day, would you? I'm not Fenris. Though, I did admire his lifestyle and his decorating choices back in Kirkwall."

"I suppose even when you had your own place you didn't sit around all day," Anders mused. "But regardless, I just... I can't shake the feeling of what I've stolen from you."

"Well, a first kiss for starters," his partner quipped. "Not a first lay though, sorry. I was twenty, an age rife with sexual tension; he was a suave elf who propositioned me after a skirmish at the Rose, and the only thing I knew of that cute blond apostate in Darktown was that he was playing quite hard to get. I... remember thinking to myself, 'now, Hawke, this attractive healer you've an eye for is surely much more experienced than your virgin ass, better take the opportunity so you aren't a complete fool if you ever find him in your bed.' True story. I'm sure Varric wrote about it in as much detail as he could get away with."

The mage crinkled his nose in mock disgust and made a throaty gagging sound, but his mouth was pulled into a small grin, the sight of which made Hawke's sharp glare crinkle into a sunny, wide smile.

Anders lifted an eyebrow. "Wait, you were twenty your first time? Really? I find it hard to believe you of all people never had anyone back in Ferelden, if not just for a night."

Hawke made a face. "In Lothering? There were scarcely any kids my age, let alone who might want anything to do with the idiot who was best known for falling out of trees well past the age anyone was meant to climb them. It wasn't exactly a buzzing center of tourism or trade, either, so unless the asshole old neighbor who set bear traps out in his cabbages was your type, you were out of luck." He shrugged. "Well, at least for someone of my particular persuasion, but I have a feeling I wouldn't have had any luck chasing catty chantry maidens either, what with my... Notoriously boisterous reputation, as one of the sisters once put it. I was less than popular there."

"They were fools for thinking less of you," Anders growled softly, clenching his fist. "You should be beyond that sort of judgment."

"No," Hawke said, moving to lie down on the earth next to the fire in front of Anders, his smile steady across his face as he looked up at the man. "They were fools for running off and marrying farmers and nobles when there are perfectly good troubled mages running about."

"You'd really call me 'good'?"

"Sure," Hawke shrugged. "Just as much as I would call myself good. Or anyone I know, really." He lifted a hand to scratch at some stubble in need of shaving on his chin. "Well, except for Varric, he's a blessing. I will never understand how he's so frigging patient, what with the two of us, especially."

Anders let himself truly smile a bit. In the dry heat of the campfire, he could feel the stretch of his own skin, feel the wrinkles that had begun to form in the crevasses of his face. He felt a bit wearier with each passing day, but Hawke seemed to be growing sharper, harder, stronger - the boyish jawline and innocent, soft eyes that Anders remembered had been slowly replaced with a tightly set jaw and a piercing scowl so sharp that it startled him at times. The Fereldan refugee boy who could melt cold, lonely apostate hearts had transformed into a harsh beast whose glare could stop its prey cold in its tracks. Anders took a moment to be thankful that this was, all things considered, -his- beast.

"But about you stealing from me," Hawke continued, staring directly into Anders's golden eyes. "You haven't. To steal implies that you took from me without my consent. Whatever you think you stole from me - my heart, my love, my youth - don't. Those were gifts, Anders. Gifts I give you more than willingly, and I'll keep giving them to you until the day my heart stops beating." Hawke nodded his head in Anders's direction. "You can tell Justice or Vengeance or Anders or whoever else is hiding inside of you giving you doubts that I will not ever regret what I've given to you."

"Not even-" he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Not even the help in doing what I've done?"

"Honestly, I've long since been over that, love. The only regret I have is that I never convinced you to be upfront with me. Would have saved us a few months of emotional tension, but I do admit, the making up was more than worth it. I wonder if I still have those bite marks on my ass..."

"I may have left a bit of a scar there," Anders chuckled, "just as a reminder. I can heal it away if you like," he offered.

"Don't you dare. You'd break my fragile heart a second time if you did, but then again, you might have to bite harder this time to make up for it..."

Anders slid off his seat to sit next to Hawke on the ground, awkwardly draping one leg over Hawke's stomach as he did. "I say we skip the betrayal and jump ahead to the biting part."

"Excellent plan, love." Hawke reached up and grabbed Anders's leg, holding it close to him with a deliberate gentleness that betrayed the lewdness of the discussion.

The mage closed his eyes and let himself soak in the warmth of the fire and of Hawke's arms protectively wrapped around his leg. When they'd first escaped Kirkwall, he'd felt older and older, more and more lost, less and less like the man he once was every passing day. His body still felt weak, and he still tore himself up inside more often than he ever used to - but somehow, Hawke had slowly begun to pour life back into him, had pulled him ever closer and let Anders bask in the warmth Hawke had to give him. He started to smile again. He started, even, to laugh again, thanks to Hawke.

Anders hummed. "Even if I can't steal from you, I want to steal the world and give it to you. Everything under the sun. I'll make it yours somehow, no matter whose hands I must pry it from."

"The bit of the world I care for is already mine," Hawke assured him. "I'm a lucky man. Not many can hold their world in their arms."

"I think you'll find most people don't associate the world with a boot," Anders chuckled.

"Oh shush, I'm trying to be romantic," Hawke laughed. "Though it comes easy around you."

Anders sighed. "If it were anyone but you I would assume you were merely trying to flatter me. There are perks to your forwardness, you know."

"I'm not that forward, am I?"

"Sometimes. But..." He pulled his leg away, instead shifting so he could kneel over Hawke, one hand reaching to gently brush the man's chin. "It's romantic in its own right." He leaned forward, propping himself up only barely by way of a free arm across Hawke's chest. "I must admit I am not satisfied with the amount of not-stealing I've done to you. I was well and ready to be sad about ruining your life, and you had to go and get me smiling again."

"You could steal a kiss, if you like," Hawke suggested with a smirk.

"I think I will," Anders agreed, bringing their lips together slowly, gently. Perhaps he was no thief after all - each kiss seemed to be a gentle gift, a shared peace. Hawke was giving him this softness, and he was giving it in turn. Even as their kisses became deeper and quicker, it was not an act of thievery - this was a gift they shared.

"For what it's worth," Anders whispered, breaking the kiss for a moment, "You've stolen me from myself. I don't think I would... Be here, if my fate had been my choice."

Hawke reached up and brushed the loose hairs out of Anders's face, thumb running along his cheek, the man giving a soft hum in response. "Thank you for these past ten years," he whispered, smiling wide. "You're the best birthday gift I could ever ask for."


	6. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is mad short yo. Will anything come of it? Only time will tell.

_1 year after Kirkwall_

 

"Magic can take... Years. Right?"

Anders had been thinking about something else entirely, been daydreaming to himself as Hawke lay against him, and it took him a moment or two to register what Hawke had said. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, before it manifests itself." Hawke turned his body slightly to be able to look at Anders, a mixture of frustration, intrigue, and wonder on his face. "I've heard some people never know they have it until years and years down the line. Is that true?"

Anders frowned a bit. He knew where this was going, and Maker did he hate it - usually he was endlessly receptive of Hawke's questions, but this one - this one felt so difficult to answer truthfully, and lying to Hawke was something he'd vowed not to do ever again. "Well," he began, taking a deep breath, "Most will be aware of their talents from a young age, usually once they're past the 'toddler' stage. But some don't realize their skills until much later, no."

Hawke snuggled a small bit closer. "How much later?"

Anders reached for Hawke's empty hand, encircling it in his own and squeezing it supportively. "Hawke, I don't think... I don't think a thirty year old man is going to grow into magic. I'm sorry."

A bit of a prickly feeling gripped at some sense within him, a sense he recognized as the most simple form of whatever autonomy Justice was bothering to utilize at the moment, a tiny wave of unease that let him know that his resident had something to say but was not incensed enough to come forth and say it. Anders tried to ignore it - he had a feeling Justice was unhappy about the question.

"Not your fault," Hawke conceded, turning his body over completely to be able to face Anders and snuggle a bit more closely. "It's a stupid thing to ask, I know. I shouldn't be... hopeful."

"I suppose it is possible, but I don't think you should get your hopes up. That said, you're an incredibly skilled rogue. I don't know anyone else who makes climbing a castle wall look easy, or cutting through skin look like carving butter." The prickling tensed slightly, and Anders closed his eyes, trying his best to stave off an undecipherable Justice-headache.

"I barely remember my dreams," Hawke continued, looking a bit downtrodden.

"Your dreams?" Anders mused, trying to ignore the sharpness growing in his head.

"You know what happens in your dreams, and I don't. I just don't feel like that's fair, having all the fun without me, you know?" 

"That's not what you're really upset about," Anders - though not so sure it was really him speaking - said, with a mix of curiosity and caution.

Hawke frowned, but he didn't seem angry or upset - just slightly disappointed that he was fated to be an abysmal liar. "My father, my sister... half of my family was magic," he muttered into a shoulder of feathers. "I was convinced that somewhere inside of me, I felt it, too. Every night I would tell myself it was the night I would wake up in the Fade, fully aware, just like my sister - and the rest would be history." He snuggled a bit closer, collecting his thoughts. "She told me all about it. Bethany and I got into quite a bit of trouble of course, and she always told me just how her particular brand of trouble worked. Perhaps this will sound ridiculous especially to you of all people, but to be magic..." He trailed off, staring into the distance, a look of defeat and frustration coming over him.

"Hm?" Anders pressed, bringing his free hand up to play with Hawke's hair. "I promise, whatever you say, I won't find it ridiculous."

Hawke sighed. "Magic is the one freedom I can't fight to get. It drives me in circles just thinking about it. My father, my sister, my love... I feel pretty selfish for wishing I had your power. You've all struggled so much because of it, but I can't help myself. I can't stop thinking of that one freedom I can't ever fight to achieve."

Anders was surprised. "You think that being a mage is a freedom?"

"Right? Ridiculous, obviously. Might as well tie myself to a tree and call that freedom, too. Might even be less of a hassle."

"No, no, it's just -" A warm, tingling feeling swelled through Anders, much softer than the stabbing sensation from before. He curled himself closer to Hawke, one leg over the man, chin nestled in his hair. "You've always been one to look fate in the eye and kick it away if it displeased you. I think I get it. Magic is the ultimate freedom in a way, isn't it? To be able to bend the world to your whims is quite covetable once you remove the social stigma and oppression surrounding it," he chuckled softly, "Which of course means you'd be all over it."

"Thirty is young still. I'll get it one day," Hawke muttered sleepily in Anders's arms. "And when I do, you'll have to teach me all the tricks and help me fight away my demons," he whispered warmly into Anders's neck. "They won't have any luck anyways, I'm taken, thanks."

Anders smiled and kissed the top of Hawke's head. "Mage or not, you'll always be magical to me, love."


	7. Rubble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and a ten story building have a disagreement.
> 
> Umm... Not sure if this would count under "Graphic Depictions of Violence" or not. Be warned that I describe some physically painful stuff. If that freaks you out, might want to ignore this one. It's a bit more tame than I usually describe, but I like gory details... This wasn't supposed to be about gory details though so I tried to relent.
> 
> Just wait until I finish the drabble about the Arishok fight. THAT one is about the gory details.

_Eight months after Kirkwall._

 

Hawke panicked.

The broken foundation had collapsed over him, but thankfully, before it could crush him, had toppled onto itself, holding up burning rubble and boulders above him, but he could see it would not last very long. He cried out for help - he couldn't move, not with the pain in his legs like this, not with cracked ribs and a twisted wrist. Could anyone even hear him over the sound of fire roaring around him?

This had gone wrong, horribly wrong. This had been peaceful. The mages here were more than happy to get out of the Circle, and the templars had been surprisingly docile - perhaps they were scared, or perhaps they knew they were outnumbered, and their magic-quelling skills were useless against an assassin. Perhaps it was just because of location, being fairly secluded as it was, and there wasn't the harsh contact of the outside world to tell the templars there what exactly was happening in the world around them. Whatever the reason, they had been quiet and lenient and obedient of the mages as they riled up at the news of their rebellion. The mages had grabbed all they could carry and fled, quickly - some not bothering to take personal items at all, opting to run at the first chance they had. Who could blame them?

But it seems that one apprentice was particularly incensed at the templars, deciding to use his newfound freedom to harass them. Anders had sighed in frustration at the sight, and Hawke tried to diffuse the situation while Anders helped a group of startled-looking enchanters pack up potions and magical supplies, clearly with his hands full, both literally and figuratively. But Hawke was useless in calming the angry apprentice, and soon one of the Templars was agitated enough to try to act.

Unfortunately for everyone in the surrounding area, the apprentice was not quite skilled enough to have the finesse of a fireball, and he... well, to say he exploded wasn't quite right. He was, thankfully, only burnt a bit, but he had lost control of the fire he was throwing and everything was suddenly burning, the type of hot, magical flame which ate at everything without discretion.

Which was bad, because the tower's supports were made almost completely out of wood.

Anders had disappeared from view, likely helping the mages he was assisting away from the blast as quickly as possible. The apprentice dropped to his knees and then ran, but it was too late - everything was burning. The templars were filled with obvious, nervous panic and fled, many screaming in fear and quickly reaching to undo their red-hot armor, and Hawke felt a pang of pity for them - they had been so cooperative, despite it all, and he hoped they escaped without too much harm.

Everything was chaos. The flame had eaten through some of the tower supports and bits of the loosely-built ceiling stone was beginning to fall, crashing into furniture and toppling over bookshelves. A few mages still straggling behind scrambled to flee, and Hawke stuck around to give them directions on how to escape the building, shouting for them to keep running, don't stop - it could get worse at any minute.

It did. The ceiling collapsed, and by the roar of the sound of stone crashing stone, the entire building was crumbling. And they were on the second floor, out of ten. A wave of fire and wood and stone collapsed from above, and the floor gave out, toppling Hawke through a fifteen-foot drop to the floor below. He didn't realize he was screaming until he had to cough from the smoke, clutching his legs in agony, breath rasping from pain that was coming from all over him. Somehow, miraculously, the entire building hadn't crushed him, but seeing the creaking, smouldering crossbeam above him, he knew it would be any moment now before this place became his grave.

He cried out for help, a help he knew must not be coming, as all who had fled must have been far off and full of panic, not thinking twice before turning back to the glorified prison that was crashing to pieces behind them.

Coughing and sputtering, he winced as a large stone fell next to him, neatly crushing his side. Any moment now, any second, it would be over. He would be dead. There was no help coming; Anders would have his hands full, probably getting everyone as far from the destruction as he could and healing those who had been burned. He wouldn't hear, he wouldn't even be close enough to hear. Wouldn't know what happened. Would he know? Would he assume Hawke had run somewhere and become lost in the woods? Would he know Hawke had been crushed in the rubble? Would he even find his body beneath ten floors worth of stone?

"I'm sorry, Anders." He muttered with what little breath he hadn't exhausted from screaming. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he shut them tightly, bracing himself for the inevitable. He couldn't breathe anymore, the smoke was too thick, the dust billowing around and clogging his lungs, and he felt the crossbeams barely a foot above where he lay crack as they started to give in to gravity.

He felt, suddenly, some sort of peace. It would be over soon; Anders wouldn't need to worry about him. He was an outlier, an assassin among a horde of apostates, and he didn't know what was best for them like Anders did. He was a target which only worsened the target on Anders's back - everyone knew that Anders and the Champion had fled together. Anders would be safer. He could live - and die - knowing that much. As his consciousness faded, he only wished it weren't so soon.

But the peaceful feeling suddenly seemed... foreign. It wasn't his peace with death causing the sensation, and he was startled back into reality as he realized that his body was ever so slightly prickling with the feeling, nerves beginning to pinch in places with a warm buzz. Healing. Healing! Someone must have cast out a healing aura to help the wounded, and they'd wandered close enough for it to reach him. With every last bit of his strength, he cried out again, coughing as he screamed for help.

There was suddenly a roaring pressure from somewhere to his left, a sizzling, burning feeling that wasn't physical at all. Light was pushing against his mind like a wall, and from afar was an echoing, deafening boom that Hawke almost didn't realize was a voice.

"HAWKE!" The loud echo reverberated, seemingly filling every space, coming from every direction. "HAWKE! PLEASE, DON'T BE DEAD. PLEASE... WHERE ARE YOU?"

Hawke could barely move from the sound of the voice, but somehow he managed to shout, and the pressure grew stronger. But it was too late, far too late, the crossbeams were cracking, the rubble above him was falling, and he cried in pain as ten floors of stone fell onto his side, cracking his ribs and stabbing the broken bones into his lung, the agony blinding him through tears and dust. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, and he knew that it was too late... too late...

Bright blue surrounded him, washing over him with blinding light. Was he dead? There was a reverberating pressure so strongly in his mind that he couldn't think, couldn't feel, couldn't hear. He knew this feeling - it was the sensation of being in the Fade, he remembered it so suddenly now - it had been years since then, since Kirkwall, since the comparatively pleasant jaunt into the Fade that he'd had there, and it was the same feeling, the same intense flurry of light and pressure and confusion. He was slipping into the Fade. This was it - he was dying.

But the Fade pulled with all its strength, and Hawke realized that the feeling was a set of hands, clawing tight around his chest, dragging him away. He looked dizzily to the arms around him and squinted almost immediately at the intensity of the blue cracks of light across their surface, and he flinched away instinctively, but they did not let go, instead pulling tighter, finally freeing him from the rubble as it crashed down without him there to support it.

There was grass beneath him now. He was no longer being dragged, and instead, warmth pressed around him, and he realized that limbs had been curled around him protectively as he lay against the body that had dragged him out. He wanted to sleep, wanted to drift off in the warmth, the unrelenting pressure pushing his thoughts out of his mind, and he drooped against the figure in exhaustion.

"DO NOT SLEEP" the voice echoed, and burning bright hands had grasped his cheeks. He struggled to focus his eyes, dizzy and disoriented. Why not sleep? Sleep would be nice. Maybe just a moment of... 

"OPEN YOUR EYES, DO NOT SLEEP! DO YOU HEAR ME? DON'T CLOSE YOUR EYES. DO NOT LEAVE US..." 

He tried so hard to focus, barely able to see through the light. But then it hit him, and he was filled with a rush of adrenaline, eyes wide.

"J-justice!" He choked, coughing up blood, and Justice held him in a strong embrace. Hawke wasn't sure if it was delirium from bloodloss and pain, but he thought for a moment that perhaps Justice was humming to him, trying to calm him down.

"You're here," Justice muttered, much more quietly, but with no less of the booming reverberation that came with him. "Do not sleep, Hawke. You'll die. I can't let you die."

"I'm right here, Justice," he coughed, and he felt a thrum of pressure build near his spine as Justice ran his hands along Hawke, tearing off his torn and bloody shirt to properly touch along his back. He cried out in pain as he felt his spine snap back into place, the horrible pinch of his nerves jolting him even more awake. 

"You're so hurt," Justice wavered, the reverb in his voice crackling in and out as he spoke. "Oh Hawke," Anders whispered from behind Justice. "Love, I'm going to fix you. We're going to heal you. You'll be ok."

He nodded, about to reply as Justice returned with full force, fingers digging into his hips and Hawke hissed through his teeth as he felt his shattered hipbone crack back into one piece, and then Justice pressed against his chest, and he shrieked as his ribs unbroke, bones slipping out of his punctured lung as it twined back into the proper shape. He was sweating from pain, and Justice lay him gently onto the grass before kneeling next to his legs.

Oh, Maker, he'd forgotten how bad his legs were, and he screamed as he felt the sharp bone fragments twist inside him. His legs were shattered, bone and marrow and flesh scraping together inside of him, his nerves on fire as the light and pressure and pain ripped through him. He doubled over with a cry, and he wanted to throw up, wanted to sob, but it hurt too much to think, to breathe-

And then it was over. He collapsed, gasping through clenched teeth as he felt a gentle set of hands take his wrist, a gentle softness easing the sprain, and then Anders brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss. Hawke panted in pain and soreness, but he couldn't help but chuckle to himself as Anders - exhausted beyond belief, eyes hollow like he'd seen a ghost - kissed his hand.

"All better," Hawke choked, wincing at the pain in his chest, and Anders's face twisted into a terrified grimace as he sobbed, curling over him and burying his head into Hawke's sweaty, dirt-covered chest.

Someone approached from afar, and Anders didn't bother to lift his head and see who was coming, Hawke too disoriented and sore to turn to look, but it was someone in enchanter's robes.

"Ser!" She gasped, as if she had been running for hours. "Ser, are you alright!?"

Anders nodded into Hawke's neck, breath hitching through his quiet sobbing. "I am," he whispered. "I am now."

Hawke fell asleep, and Anders let him. 

This time, he would wake up.


	8. The Three Of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Justice contemplate himself.
> 
> I love exploring things like this. Justice is a great subject for me to prod around with.
> 
> I guess I'm updating the relationship tags to Hawke/Justice, also. I think that's appropriate for this chapter.

_Years after Kirkwall._

 

There was a twisted rope within Anders. A knotted, tangled mess, it was, with no real ending or beginning. It used to be he could feel little splinters emanating from the tangle that was himself; sometimes a whine or a pang for something superficial would drum up a flash of memory of a young man with a pretty earring and orange fur stuck all over his clothes. Sometimes he was bitter and angry, and a streak of blinding blue overtook him - and sometimes just an annoyed, tired warden would flash in his mind. It used to be that he had forgotten, completely, what it was like to be... Himself, and someone else. He had rarely felt Justice anymore, and for quite some time after Kirkwall it felt that he no longer could identify what exactly it was which pulled itself forward as he spoke or he acted. For a time, there was a grey, awkward slurry of maybe-Anders-maybe-Justice within him.

But Hawke - Hawke started to call him by name.

The faint glow which Anders no longer realized still appeared was met with "Justice", and something in him stirred. Hawke began to differentiate between them, began to call them as they were. Slowly, somehow, Hawke began to separate them - Justice and Anders were two parts of one whole, but the parts began to sift again, began to coalesce into abstract sensations which Anders marveled at the construct of. Slowly, he felt it - he felt him. Himself. He was forming into an old face, an old smile, and he felt Justice slowly solidify once more, from a memory, to a blurry sensation, to a buzz and a feeling and a voice - a set of emotions, a sense of self... Anders - no. The two of them were surprised at the way Hawke separated them. At the way they began to remember themselves.

Justice felt sensations which he had not felt before. Such was the curse of his borrowed humanity; suddenly he felt a strange warmth from Hawke. Hawke did not hold back when Anders was there, and the two of them often were captured in the throes of passionate romance - kisses that would make an Orlesian blush, a roughness that could be mistaken for viciousness if it weren't clearly performed out of amorous affection. But Hawke seemed to know when Justice was there, and in those moments, Hawke was firm and grounded. He did not bite at Anders's lips like he was dying of thirst when Justice was there, but rather held Justice's shoulders firm, gave him supportive embraces and respectful touches, neither sexual nor romantic in nature but nurturing and guarding instead. 

Anders realized one day that he was no longer a prisoner, watching through his own eyes as a vicious creature he once called a friend used his body for its own gain - or, perhaps, watching a friend tormented by the chains of the human mind wrapped around him. It was like he had a brother, a brother whose senses he could feel the world through, and he hoped dearly that this was what Justice had begun to feel as well. No longer were they prisoners, no - they were partners, and Hawke let them sort themselves into who they were and let them act as they must. 

It seemed, indeed, one day - Anders could almost hear him. It wasn't like words spoken or gestures expressed through visuals or sound; it was like a thought, a concept, but for the first time he knew it was not his. For the first time in a long, long time, he knew he was listening to someone who was not himself - and he knew his thoughts could be his own. It was not quite independence, but the sensation of a grey mass of uncertainty had slowly shifted into a gradient of two beings within him, and though the center was still blurry, their own colors shimmered through themselves clear as day.

And Anders didn't feel alone inside himself any longer. 

It was strange, feeling Hawke's tongue against his neck and hands over his ass in passion, and then - like the flip of a switch - a firm hand on Justice's shoulder, questioning the spirit to ensure everything was ok.

And then, Anders thought - Justice must not like Hawke quite the same way he did. It was awkward at first - how could he share an intimate moment, knowing he was using a body which happened to occasionally belong to someone that was more and more identifiable as entirely different from him? Justice surely should not be subjected to a sexual relationship that he did not want in a body that he often did not take the reins of. But unlike the past, where he had fought the blurry sensation of disgruntlement and rage and forced it down into himself as he let Justice eat away at his mind, let each other claw at the knots which strung them together in terrible twisted form, he felt an understanding. A conversation.

[It's okay. I understand. You love him.]

{Are you sure?}

[Yes. This is your body. And I do not mind observing the humanity I borrow, used to the potential which you might use it.]

{But what if you're uncomfortable?}

[I experience your pleasure. He makes you happy. I will revel in your joy. Do not be ashamed of what you share with him.]

Justice felt so strange now. Was he even Justice anymore? He felt... human, in ways that Anders thought impossible. Perhaps it was because they had shared himself so long. Perhaps because they'd become one person once, because they'd seeped into each other so deeply. He was more than Justice now, but still he remained Justice, in a way which Anders could never quite put to words - he could only feel.

Sometimes Justice was curious. He came forth with trepidation as he asked for Hawke to act without reserve as he always had. Of course, Hawke laughed and smiled and admitted he did not quite understand the spirit's request - Hawke knew him as Justice, separated the two as if they were their own creatures, and not just a strange mode of Anders - not until Justice took a firm grasp of the man's hair and nervously pressed his lips against Hawke's. Some part of him felt worry, but the part of him which was Anders felt warm and unrelenting. Felt accepting. Felt... excitement.

Justice and Anders were different. Justice was curious. Suddenly, he had been filtered from the painful chains wrapped around him and within the both of them which tangled them indiscriminately from one another; suddenly he was Himself, overcome by a strange amnesia of knowing he had always been there and yet not having truly felt a Self since before he'd come to be part of Anders. Justice was firm and curious, and unyielding in his curiosity. Hawke was his teacher, and yet, his charge - this human cared for him, both of him, and the both of him wanted to keep Hawke safe. Justice consumed himself with curiosity, an unfamiliarly human curiosity for the sensations that Hawke could bring them. He'd spent years as a fading consciousness, subject to blurry pleasure in the company of a man who he once only ever saw as ALLY or VILLAIN to the red-hot corruption of warped, mortal rage burning within him. But as the two halves untangled, the spirit felt his mind clear and he had his own thoughts again - or perhaps he was nothing like he used to be, and there was no 'again', but he didn't think he ever felt his sense of being quite like this. 

Hawke would kiss him firmly. It was clear - Hawke did not feel the same way about the both of them, but clearly, too, did not mind. When Anders was there, Hawke was wild, emotional, unbridled, gushing a myriad of heartfelt words of loving feelings and lustful whispers into the ear of his beloved. When Justice was there, Hawke was physical and direct, and it felt almost like Justice was learning some sort of martial art; Hawke was teaching him, showing him a platonic pleasure, instructing him on the ways of physical sensation. A purring, honeyed voice which sung Anders praise and cheerful romance was, for Justice, the low growl of a partner who shared his secrets out of respect.

Justice wasn't sure he knew quite what love was like. He felt it, residually, gleaming off of Anders, and he thought that it must feel like being filled with warm, sweet fire. It must feel like hot light that tangled with the burning of another, not out of entrapment within a struggling and broken mind, but out of acceptance and freedom, a shared energy. He did not feel that with Hawke, nor, he understood, did Hawke feel that with him - it was Anders who Hawke loved and who loved him back. But he did feel... Thankful. Respectful. Other, unidentifiable emotions he had either long forgotten, or had never quite felt before. Perhaps it was love in its own right, Justice mused - the steadfast hum inside him which vowed to protect the man was, perhaps, an affection of his own kind.

He wondered, truly, how much he had separated from Anders. He had no envy of the blindingly human compassion that Anders was engulfed in around Hawke, but he was at the same time enthralled by it, by merely feeling that Anders felt it; perhaps he was still part Anders enough to feel the same way, through a lens of sorts, the overlapping of two parts which came together to be one mind when it came to that compassion. Or, perhaps, he was himself enough to be independent of a need for Hawke's affections, and the appreciation and respect the man gave him was a compassion that was more his speed. Perhaps it was both, in some way. Whatever he was - whatever they were - there was a calmness they had never felt before. An acceptance of one another they'd never experienced before. 

It was not that they were without turmoil; Anders struggled with hidden thought-sicknesses that plagued him more than any demon could, and Justice struggled to understand the trappings of a human's ailing mind, frustrated endlessly by his host's unpredictable self-deprecation and unprompted despair - both of them startled by the slow realization that perhaps it was no demonic corruption that had sneakily turned their bonds to barbed wire, but the pain they shared when Anders's mind plagued itself, irrational tendrils of fear and pain creeping inside the both of them and shredding at their sanity. Still they blended their rage and vengeance together, knitted their pain, twined their bitterness, felt the prickle of fear that one would hurt the other when their disagreements bent them both into a blind stress, but they no longer felt prisoner to one another. They were brothers suffering in illness; as they found more and more of themselves apart from the other, they grew even closer.

Justice remembered a string of broken thoughts, fuzzy in the miasma of a distant past; the whisper of a friend, a friend who cared, who wanted to bring him freedom and justice. And while, perhaps, he would never be cleaved truly into his own being again, he was himself enough that he could feel thankful to Anders for the experience they shared - for the sacrifice that the worried apostate boy had made for his stranded and terrified friend.

Hawke did not really understand the extent of what he had done to them. He knew they were happier, somewhat, and that Justice was a bit more autonomous, but he couldn't see the changes within them - Justice could not quite express it, and Anders could not feel it in a precise enough way to form it into proper words, and perhaps there was no way for Hawke or anyone to truly know the feeling unless they were here and feeling it, too. To be torn from one's home, to be trapped within a human mind and ground into its cracks and crevasses, straining at the pressure for years, only to be chipped away and rebuilt - no words could ever truly express what had been done. 

Hawke would never quite understand, but that was okay. Justice and Anders were thankful - for the three of them, together, under the glistening stars.

Anders laughed at something Hawke did, arms wrapped around the man, wide awake and enjoying time in his lover's company. 

The three of them were safe. Justice allowed himself to sleep.


	9. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our "heroes" meet each other.
> 
> I usually don't call Olly by first name just because I'm used to calling him Hawke, but I figure in a situation where it's him and his sister, it's weird to call him "Hawke" when they're both Hawke. So he gets referred to as Olevyr a few times.
> 
> Also, what the fuck is an update schedule, I just don't know

_Kirkwall, in the beginning._

 

Once the initial, gut reaction of defensiveness wore off, the boy in front of Anders was surprisingly non-threatening. He had choppy, illogically spiky hair, disheveled in a way that almost seemed intentional, and his eyes gleamed with a wary - albeit friendly - spark, clearly trying to gauge whether or not Anders was a threat or something else. When the boy opened his mouth, apparently ignoring the healer's potential for being dangerous, Anders could feel himself reeling - the witty, carefree charisma that this 'Hawke' exuded felt so startlingly similar that Anders wondered if someone had resurrected his old self and sent it his way in a new body. He cracked jokes and yet somewhat nervously reassured him that no, he wasn't here to hurt anyone. He wasn't here to call the templars. The boy was full of energy, tensing beneath his muscles like a spring ready to uncoil, ready to strike at a moment's notice - but instead applied towards bright gestures in an attempt to convince the mage that no, he wasn't here to cause trouble.

He was clearly naive, but what Anders initially mistook for cockiness, he realized quickly was genuine optimism. The boy wore his heart on his sleeve, evidenced in their conversation, which involved asking Anders for assistance with the Deep Roads. Dear MAKER, he hated the Deep Roads, but he couldn't stop himself from listening - Hawke's pleas and questions were genuine, if not a bit forward and far less tactful than the rogue probably intended. Anders knew he should be cautious, but something - some part of him saw a glimmering reflection in the boy, a reflection of an Anders left abandoned. An Anders who Anders missed, in all honesty. It felt good to see someone else carry the gleeful wit that he struggled to remember beneath the panic and stress of his current situation.

So, Anders trusted him. If he wanted to go to the Deep Roads, fine - but he would have to help. The mage clung to a whim, to the startling shred of himself he could see within the man - and against his better judgment, trusted the curious stranger with helping to ensure Karl's escape. Perhaps, this strange young Fereldan with his friendly sarcasm and Karl with his calm yet warm realism would help scare up the Anders which Anders wanted to remember.

Or perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps this 'Hawke' would betray him, rat him out to the templars, kill him once they were alone. Perhaps. Justice stirred nervously inside him, wary of this strange entity that Anders was taking such a huge risk on - but Anders could live with that. After all, what part of Anders's life wasn't built on mistakes, potentially life-threatening risks, and questionable coincidences? There was little he could do to stop himself now.

\---

Karl was gone, and Anders didn't know what to do. It hurt, it cut at him and drove him to tears, but he wasn't sure if it was the grief that most distressed him or the empty, dull chasm of a void that consumed every emotion, and he was worried at the lack of sadness he felt. He was sad, unquestionably, but he didn't feel sad, and he wondered if this was how Karl had felt - knowing a feeling was there, but not feeling it at all.

And that made him nauseous, to think that the man he loved could have been forced into anything like this, into unfeeling apathy which ate away at everything and yet was inescapable, its influence impossible to fight. Anders was happy that he had the power to fight - though he couldn't bring himself to fight it. Not yet. He accepted the fog as his punishment.

He killed Karl. Hawke - Hawke hadn't told him to, and yet didn't stop him. For one moment, the forwardness and confidence drained from the man's resolve and he'd let Anders do what he thought was best. Or perhaps that was some strange, sideways way of Hawke respecting Anders, sensing that perhaps Karl was not just... 'a friend', as he'd told the man when asking for assistance.

It was wrong to have lied like that. It was wrong to have told Hawke that Karl was simply 'a friend'. Or maybe it wasn't wrong? It felt wrong now, at least - Hawke should know what the events of that night, and Karl, really meant to Anders. It was only fair, after risking himself to help them, and selfish though it might be, he wanted to get closer to this enigmatic young refugee, wanted to bask in the warm light of someone who hadn't been stretched thin and heartbroken. It would be good for him, he mused. An act of therapy. Someone else's naive humor and optimism wouldn't hurt to stick around for.

Hawke was, as Anders realized he ought to start to expect, quite forward. He was genuinely sad to hear about Karl, and a distant, hurt look appeared in his eyes when Anders told him who Karl had really been to him. And... then Hawke told him he was sexy.

Anders couldn't help but chuckle. Had he not picked up the little bits of the man's personality which had been presented to him so far, then perhaps the flirting would have offended him after the confession about Karl, but the man seemed genuine - genuinely upset about Karl and yet simultaneously genuinely honest about his opinion of Anders's appearance, and perhaps he'd even meant it as a way to cheer him up. And Hawke didn't seem to mind Justice, which was a big positive.

Perhaps the selfish desire to spend more time with him wasn't as one-sided as Anders had assumed, because sure enough, Hawke had arrived in the clinic again with a wide smile, inviting Anders to come join him for something rather mundane.

\---  
\---

Ever since Hawke came to Kirkwall, it felt like getting things done was a wild goose chase. Asking for something simple meant badgering at least five different people to get it, and though Hawke didn't really care, thought it was exciting even, he could feel Bethany's anxiety radiating from her every time they were sent a new direction. It was more and more time being spent chasing something that could get her in trouble. Hawke was determined - he would NEVER let anyone hurt her. She knew it, too, but still, she worried.

And though Hawke liked the thrill, liked the freedom of being a sell-sword, wandering the city and collecting the requests of townspeople who promised gold and, in unspoken terms, adventure, he also was curious about the Deep Roads and, even more than that, the Grey Wardens. They were a curious, secretive band, and the shreds of what was left of the Fereldan Wardens had defeated the Blight in a year - they were a thing of legend, and Hawke could barely contain his excitement that he was going to meet one.

Bethany was tense as they approached, sending her brother silent signals in the form of worried looks.

"What?" Olevyr asked, shrugging from her gaze like he was trying to slide out of whatever she was about to accuse him of.

"Just don't be an ass," she scolded. "If he's not what you're expecting, don't be an ass to him."

"I will not be an ass!" He retorted, pouting.

"You say that, but I know you. Don't judge him purely on your first instinct like you always do. We need him to help us."

Olevyr rolled his eyes. "If he doesn't help us, then I'll steal his maps later, it's fine."

"It's not!" Bethany stressed, but he was already chortling to himself and opening the clinic's door.

The Warden was a strange man, whose demeanor and appearance made Hawke want to ask a thousand questions. He was pretty, and yet also disheveled and guarded and he practically screamed of stories of valor and magic and mystery. But he was here for the maps, so he would contain himself. For now.

Of course, telling himself he'd reign it in and actually -doing- that were two entirely different matters. He started asking questions immediately, and the Warden remained calm, answering his questions and asking for nothing in return for the maps but assistance in helping his friend escape the Circle. Sounded easy enough - he was used to being hired help, and templars would be no trouble. Risky fun, and he'd get secret Warden maps out of it? It was too good to be true.

\---

Of course it was.

Hawke knew from the look on Anders's face that this was hard, that the decision the man had made was hard. He saw so many of the Warden's emotions in a single day - hope, then worry, anger, fear, sadness. Despair. He felt like he wasn't supposed to see it - this was a man who he'd hoped to share a professional friendship with, to share stories of adventure with, and he'd never wanted to witness this sort of grief in anyone. And that strange power which the man had used to fight away the templars - it was startling, chilling, and being near to it felt hot and cold at the same time, unnatural and yet immovable. It was like no magic that he'd ever seen from his father or his sister, and it scared him a bit.

But he was not the type to stay silent, and he went to the Warden and learned the truth. The man - Karl - had been his lover at one point, and there was a twinge inside of Hawke that recalled some unkind words that his old neighbor in Lothering had for him when the man had learned of the boy's preferences. He'd always assumed that once you had the freedom of love, nothing could steal it from you - but the world was not that forgiving. Against his gut reaction to do so, he didn't bring it up; he didn't want to take away from this man's grief.

Unfortunately, his impulse control was too slow to stop the words which tumbled out as he learned about Justice; Bethany signed loudly behind him, and Varric suppressed a laugh, and he was about to apologize for his behavior when the Warden chuckled, visibly caught by surprise at the realization that the man was flirting with him. Hawke felt his ears turning red as the man flirted back, effortlessly - this was a game the Warden was clearly used to, and though Hawke had the guts to step into the ring, he could see he was outmatched.

Too late; he wasn't going to apologize. This man, Anders - he seemed nice, and he rolled with Hawke's lack of self-censorship much more smoothly than most. If he could handle Hawke's unadulterated forwardness, he was already in Hawke's good favor - and Hawke didn't let anyone take back first impressions.

Bethany slapped him as they left, but she was grinning at him, trying not to laugh. "That's how you cheer him up? Telling him he's sexy? Brother, you're a mess."

"Yes, but," the elder Hawke retorted, a sly smirk on his face, "It worked, didn't it? He liked it!"

"You're lucky he ended up being the one person in the entire Free Marches that wouldn't smack you for that. Please, just, don't bring him back to Gamlen's house?"

He rolled his eyes, tossing his head dramatically for emphasis. "Please, Beth. He seems nice, but I like to be friends first before I try getting into anyone's pants, much less bringing them to Uncle's nasty place." He smiled, shaking his head. "Nah, it won't come to that, anyways. I just want to be his friend."

"Well, you made a great first impression," Varric laughed from behind them, looking back to see the healer peering at the three of them as they wandered away.

It wasn't long at all until Hawke came back.


	10. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS ONE IS PORN, DUDE  
> IT'S JUST PORN
> 
> I haven't written real smut for like... Shit, years probably. This is probably flaky and weird as hell, bear with me. One day I'll be ok at it again

_One night, reunited after the Inquisition._

 

Anders. Anders. Anders.  
He couldn't stop thinking the man's name and he didn't want to. 

The mage's hands were all over him, gliding across his skin, teasing, caressing. Anders. The man's cock was buried deep inside him, and he rocked his hips and pressed himself back against him, sighing and moaning with the sensation of being filled by the one he loved more than any other. Anders.

He wanted to be closer, as close as possible and more. He wanted to melt into the man's skin, seep into his chest and twine his soul into his own. Anders, Anders, Anders. The barrier of skin pressed so tightly against skin was unbearable, even flush and rubbing up as close as possible, he wanted to be closer, wanted Anders inside of every inch of his body. Anders was his, and he was no one's but Anders's.

He begged Anders to bite him, to mark him, all over his chest and neck and every inch, both where only Anders was allowed to see and where everyone could look and know that no one would -ever- have him like Anders did. The man over top of him bit into his neck, hard, hungry, teeth gripping on like a beast biting into its prey, and he whimpered in ecstasy. Anders wrapped his arms around Hawke's waist tightly, so tightly, and Hawke never wanted him to let go. Never. 

If he died like this, with the one man he loved more than anything buried within him and curled tightly around him, he would die in bliss; he prayed to the Maker and every god who might hear him that he would get to live for a thousand years in his lover's arms like this, his lover's body locked within his own. If he couldn't pour his burning love directly into Anders's soul, he would swallow every last drop of him and take every last drop that Anders gave him. It didn't matter how; it didn't matter where. To feel the mage inside him and around him, bodies locked together in heat and pressure, was the ultimate bliss.

He didn't realize he was babbling until he felt Anders chuckling as the man's teeth dug into his neck. "I love you, I love you, I love you, oh, I love you..." He couldn't stop, couldn't hold the golden heat from pouring out of his soul and through his mouth in unbridled declarations of love. Anders fucked him, hard, quick, and wanting, as much of their skin touching as possible. He ground his ass onto Anders's cock, twisting, writhing, shouting to all who could hear that he loved Anders, he loved him, loved him so much, and he needed him, needed this. Needed to have the burning light in his life fill him, fuck him, make love to him - come hard inside of him and just lie there, buried within and never letting go.

"I love you too," Anders whispered through hearty moans, and Hawke could feel his smile as Anders kissed the back of his neck. "I will never stop loving you."

"You're perfect," Hawke moaned with reverence. "I won't stop either, I love you, I love you, Anders, I'm yours..."

His body shook as Anders thrust harder, faster, his arms wrapped around Hawke so tightly he knew he would bruise and he loved it, loved that his chest and stomach would have dark bruises shaped like Anders's fingertips. Anders gripped his flesh tight and pounded into him, so hard it shook the bed, so hard Hawke could barely breathe. He arched to match the speed of his lover, fast and hard and vicious, friction and heat searing between the both of them.

Anders thrust with a loud moan and reached up to clasp his fingers around Hawke's neck and choked him, coming hard inside him. His lover's heat pooling within, Hawke sighed with light breath and came right after, still grinding down upon Anders's hips to feel him while he was still hard, reeling at the sensation and letting his body relax in bliss.

They panted and whimpered, and Anders pulled his hands away from Hawke's neck, gentle and caring and sweet like he was touching a holy artifact that he must never damage, massaging soft circles into the man's shoulders and back and stomach. He stayed inside him for a while, and he offered to heal the broken skin where he'd clawed into Hawke's chest, but Hawke refused. He would wear those scratches proudly. They were gifts from the only one allowed to give them, they were treasures, and he would let them heal on their own, let the marks sink into his soul where they belonged.

Anders finally freed himself from inside Hawke and turned the man to face him; they kissed deep, tongues twisting together, hands in each other's hair, humming to each other and feeling the vibrations in each other's chests. They ended their kiss gently, a soft press of lips to lips as they held each other's faces near.

"You always take my breath away, Hawke," Anders cooed to him, staring at him in the sad, loving, selfless way he always did.

"You take mine, too," Hawke said with a smile. "And not just because I couldn't breathe at the end, there."

Anders flushed even redder than he already was "Ah, I'm sorry, I should't have... You could've been hurt. Are you alright? I won't do it again."

"No, don't do that. Wait no, I mean - don't stop doing that. I like being at your mercy, and you can always patch me up if you go too far, right?"

Anders laughed and buried his head into Hawke's neck. "I suppose so."

Hawke smiled gently, eyes sparkling as he ran a hand through Anders's hair, bringing his other arm up to rest atop Anders's exhausted frame.

Anders was here, and loved him, and Hawke knew things would be all right.


End file.
